I. A. R. Wylie

“ They had reached a solitary by-path in the hotel grounds, and Mrs. Pagot-Chump stopped short.
"Do you realise that it's a woman you're talking to, Count?" she asked.
"Certainly, Mrs. Pagot-Chump."
"Well, then, doesn't it strike you as a rather tall order?"
"I know—I know!" He looked at her with miserable appeal. "I know, but I can't help myself. I must just fling myself blindly on your mercy. There—there are your pearls!"
He fairly thrust them on her and when they were safely in her hands he heaved a sigh of relief. "There—there—I've done it," he said. "You can think what you like. ”

“ She smiled archly, and her guests, who acted as a sort of Greek Chorus, simpered after her.
"Pearls stand for tears," said an elderly spinster, with a coy and significant glance.
"Somebody's gain is somebody's loss," added the curate gallantly sententious.
"Which reminds me of a sad case of a dear friend of mine," continued Mrs. Pagot-Chump, who had been carefully leading up to this point. "I take it you have all read in the noospapers about the poor young French nobleman who lost his memory under most distressing circumstances?" ”

“ Mrs. Pagot-Chump flushed with genuine delight. This opportunity of proving her connection with "the best French families" was worth more than any pearls to her, and the fact that the connection in question had been bought by a large monetary loan out of James Pagot-Chump's pocket did not in the least detract from its value.
"You don't say!" she exclaimed. "Well, now, if that isn't real quaint! And to think I didn't know! The world's only a pocket handkerchief after all! ”